The Rabbit
Here I am in Salem, and the good thing about it is, it’s crowded AF. Easy for a girl to get lost on Halloween, especially
if she’s gone to the Dollar Store and gotten a fake nose piercing, a packet of supposedly silver rings that are already leaving
green circles on her fingers, and purple barrette feathers for her hair. I blend right in here, or at least I would if I were
clinically insane. There are witches in capes and hats, witches with twig brooms, witches with actual live ravens on their
shoulders, witches with pentagram tattoos, pouring into the city in vehicles that all have the same bumper sticker: My Other Car’s a Broom! They’re setting up tents in the parks and parking lots, including this one I’m sitting in now, on a broken chair I found behind
the Hawthorne Hotel dumpster. I admire their commitment and some of them even look bad-@$$ but who the f*ck has the time and
money for this?
The bad thing about Salem is, it’s crowded AF, which means it’s hard for me to maintain a clear sight line on the back door
of the Hawthorne—until the emergency vehicles show up. Here we go. They part the crowd like Moses, moving slowly through the
lot with their flashers on but sirens off. The witches make way reluctantly, at first turning to see what’s happening and
then going back to their business, which I assume is preparing to summon spirits tonight or some such. They’re not really
interested in seeing who is newly, actually, physically dead.
Myself, I am quite interested. I drift through the crowd until I’m near the back door where the ambulance is parked.
It takes a minute, of course it does, the authorities have to investigate, they have to officially pronounce her deceased.
I hug myself in the chilly wind coming off the harbor.
I almost wish I had some big velvet witchy cloak.
Eventually the door opens and the EMTs bring out the gurney with its enclosed passenger.
Cyndi Pietorowski. Poor girl. So many William Corwyn love interests, so many body bags.
Some of the witches look up from their cell phones and books of spells or whatever, and one chants something in a long-dead
language. Somebody else hits a gong, which spooks the ravens, one of which splats on its irate owner’s shoulder. I’m not religious,
but I say a prayer in case Anyone is listening. This one was certifiably nuts. Poor little Cyndi. But she was so sweet. And
I am sorry. I’m genuinely sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what has happened to her. Even though it’s William’s fault for choosing
her in the first place. But it is definitely my fault too.
The ambulance proceeds in reverse. The police vehicles remain. So do I. I didn’t see William’s car in the lot, but I know
he’s in there somewhere. And I know if he leaves the hotel, which BTW is about fifty times nicer than any I’ve ever stayed
in, he’ll want to avoid notice and do it through the back door.
But guess who comes out with a female police officer?
Not William. Sam Vetiver! I can’t believe it.
F*cking Sam Vetiver. She’s like a yeast infection you thought was gone but that never goes away.
What the hell is she doing here? I mean, obviously she’s here because William is here.
And I knew she was stalking that poor Cyndi.
I knew because I tailed Sam Vetiver for a while to make sure she and William were done, which is how I knew she was spying on them in that weird park with the blue trees, and then at Cyndi’s house FFS, although Sam Vetiver just jumped around in the bushes for a while in a totally ineffective way trying to see through the windows and then went and sat in her yellow Jeep and cried, then drove home.
Which is also how I knew William had ditched her, had done that William thing of promising her the world and then pulling the football away.
I knew he’d ghosted her because why the hell else would a grown woman be acting like such a lunatic.
I watched Sam Vetiver through her apartment windows scrolling social media all hours of the night, her face underlit with screen glow, and I knew she and William were over, that he’d kicked the chair out from under her and let her twist.
So I thought she was no longer a threat and I switched to the Cyndi channel instead. But somehow I f*cked up, because here
Sam Vetiver is, released from police questioning and wandering through the insanity like some orphan child in a Nat Geo photo
shoot about a natural disaster, her face smeared with makeup and tears.
I elbow through the witches, saying “ ’Scuse me pardon me ’scuse me” and following Sam Vetiver to the train station where
her yellow Jeep is parked. How did I miss it? I was focused on Cyndi, is how. So f*cking sloppy. Sam Vetiver gets into her
Jeep, and I bolt for the waterfront warehouse where I’ve been parked and sleeping for the whole last week. Wherever Sam Vetiver
goes, I go, and I’ve got to get to my car.